“I wish we could all just work on the stuff we want to work on,” Grace sighs she finishes her drink. “It’s so sad that the film industry is in such bad shape these days. All the infrastructure is here.”
“It’s a bad time to try to make it in LA, especially if your name’s not Christopher Nolan. Even then, I hear it’s difficult,” Margot says drily. “Our studio hasn’t produced anything that wasn’t a sequel, remake, or enshitified reboot in almost a decade now.”
“Enshitification of big studios is real, but that won’t matter if I can start my own production company after this documentary,” I reply. Unable to help myself, I lean in and whisper, “The compensation sounds promising.”
“Really?” Grace replies. Margot raises a brow.
“Supposedly. Who knows, though. Maybe my dad’s mugshot will end up on TV before I can get anything out of this.” Then, standing and pushing my stool in I add, “Well, I think I’m one and done today. Pre-production starts tomorrow and I’ve only got a week. Let me know what I owe you guys.”
“Alright, miss bigshot. I’ll be counting on you for some close seats when the season starts. Research purposes, since you won’t help me out,” Grace winks, the afternoon light kissing her high, rounded cheekbones.
“Same. I’m serious. Ice girls.” Margot throws back the rest of her prosecco, her dark nails stark against the flute.
“Give me a heads up when you wanna start moving your stuff out. Gonna miss living with you, Fred,” Grace adds. “RIP to your nonexistent sex life.”
“Bye.” I laugh.
The Manhattan Beach sunset kisses my shoulders the whole walk back to my parents’ house.
Chapter 11
Mattias
There’s a camera crew setting up when I arrive at the rink for our first practice of the season. Fuck me. I hate dealing with the media as is, and now this? I look for the culprit, and find Daddy’s little tax write-off is already hard at work meddling on my ice. She’s wearing skates—the wrong kind, with a toe pick—and looking like a bossy bitch. Her arms are crossed as she speaks to two crew members, one wearing a camera rig and the other holding a microphone.
“What’s all this?” I say.
She jumps when she hears my voice, then twists to face me, nearly losing her balance in the process. She’s a threat to the public with technique like that.
“This is Ryan. He’s our DP.” She gestures to the camera guy, who looks like a total douche with tan, weathered skin, a scraggly beard, and a backwards Jersey Bears hat that looks at least twenty years old. “And this is Parker. They’re our boom operator.”
The other person is a tall, pale, scrappy-looking person with tattoos, cropped dark hair, a nose ring, and a trucker hat. I don’t know what aDPorboomare, and I’m not interested in finding out.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I say.
“My father told me to be here for practice, so I’m here for practice. Maybe you didn’t get the memo that we’re making a documentary.”
“Not on the actualice. That will interfere with training.”
“Yes, on the ice. Making a good film means getting good shots,” she counters.
“Making a good film won’t matter if the team performs terribly because you’re distracting them,” I snap. For good measure I add, “By being in the way.”
I don’t want her to think I meant anything else.
“Right.” She narrows her eyes, sizing me up through her long lashes the same way she did in the post office. It sets my teeth on edge, though I don’t know why, considering I have the upper hand here. This is my ice. “Well, if you’d like to take it up with Coach Marshall, be my guest. He’s already cleared it,” she adds.
Men vad fan. What a little—
As if on cue, the traitor himself appears before I can argue with her further.
“There you are, Falkenberg,” he says, looking way too pleasant. “As you can see, we’re doing things a little differently today. Freddie, Ryan, and Parker here are gonna follow the practice.” I can tell from the delicacy of his tone he finds all of this as invasive as I do, but he’s doing his best to go along with it. I don’t have that sort of patience.
“I don’t think it’s necessary to—” I start.
“The fuck’s all this?” Joonas Häkkänen, our Finnish starting goaltender, says from behind me. He’s still wearing last season’s beard, his blond hair greased back and peeking out around the base of his neck. He reeks of the sage he’s always burning in the locker room, his weird pre-skate ritual that we’ve all come to tolerate. The team is starting to trickle in. To my knowledge, they haven’t been briefed on any of this.
“Why don’t you take a seat, Häkkänen? Falkenberg, join him.” Coach gestures to the stands. I begrudgingly plant myself in the front row just as the trust fund tyrant steps off the ice, stomping her way over to Coach Marshall like she owns the place. I guess she technically does—and I look away to let my blood pressure stabilize.
